Blink Of An Eye
by Lif61
Summary: Thranduil pays Bard a visit in Dale, and they discuss life and matters of the heart.


**A/N: Tried my hand at Barduil. Had a lot of fun with it.**

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Bard felt inadequate with Thranduil sitting in his hall. There had not been much time to tend to it and the other structures in Dale after Smaug's desolation, and the battle of the mountain and with the orcs, but Thranduil had seen it fit to pay him a visit. Whether it was a proper royal visit, that remained to be seen. He had not any noble attendants with him, but a few servants. Bard had hardly seen the servants about, as Thranduil seemed to enjoy pouring his own glasses of wine, and even offering them to Bard, and such. Now they were sitting in the old feasting hall that had yet to be cleared of rubble, a table of meager food prepared for them as Bard preferred to give most rations to his people. Bain, Sigrid, and Tilda were supping elsewhere, though they had woven plenty of tales of the elven king before they were shooed off, tales that made Bard smile, and filled his stomach with an excitement that made him feel eager and young again. Though, Tilda's had been quite… fanciful.

"How do your people fare?" Thranduil asked, silver rings flashing in the dying light of the sun as he popped a grape into his mouth.

Bard answered as he could, truthfully, but bolstering up the help that Thranduil had given to them, knowing a king surely liked to be flattered.

Bard himself could not seem to bring his hands to touch his plate, was enthralled with the timeless elf before him, and after some more formal talk, Thranduil took notice.

"Eat. Are you not hungry?"

Bard found truths slipping from his tongue, "Hunger is not what bothers me, my lord Thranduil."

"Please, _just_ Thranduil." He picked up a glass of wine and took a sip. "And what is it that bothers you?"

Bard pushed his plate aside, and leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Why is it that you are here… Thranduil? Surely you have halls of magnificent trees and bountiful starlight. Here we are just men."

Thranduil smiled, a secretive smile. "Perhaps I like men." Then his gaze grew very pointed, clear blue eyes seeing more than just his flesh, but piercing cloth and skin, delving deeper to Bard's inner thoughts, it seemed. "Perhaps I have spent too long hidden away in my woods, grieving a past that cannot be given back to me. As for you, you have children. Had you a wife?"

Bard lowered his head, smiling sadly as he thought back to her. "Aye. She was beautiful. I loved her."

"Do you love her still?"

"Always."

"But to love another…"

"Would be alright, I s'pose," he responded, looking up.

Bard was not quite sure what was happening anymore, but Thranduil's intense gaze remained. Now the elf king leaned back, still holding his glass of wine, swirling it about, looking satisfied.

Not knowing why, Bard found himself smiling, content, yet some giddy warmth filled him.

"Now, my son, he would not understand," Thranduil went on.

Words tumbled out of his mouth, and Bard asked, "How old is he?"

"Oh, quite young, really. Still at that troubling, rebellious age. Not even three thousand."

Bard's eyes grew wide in surprise and he sat back in his chair.

"And yours? You have three, am I correct?" Thranduil went on.

"Yes, yes. Um… Sigrid is sixteen years, Bain fifteen, and Tilda is at eleven years of age."

Thranduil passed him a sympathetic look, even though those years were surely the blink of an eye to him.

"Quite difficult years, I presume, though I know not much of human aging. Have they control of their um… functions?"

Bard had been about to try some of the wine Thranduil had brought with him, and nearly choked at the question.

"Oh, yes, got that taken care of years ago."

"Oh, good."

"Your son, what was he like as a babe?" Bard asked.

"Legolas would not wish me to tell you, and I dare not ask the same of your children. The shame of a king knowing such youthful stories. But I daresay, I am sure you made beautiful children."

Bard felt his cheeks heating up.

"Thank you."

After sipping some wine Thranduil let out a laugh, and it filled the empty hall with mirth, and Bard found himself laughing as well.

"I am not good at small talk, am I?"

"Truthfully, no, not much."

"Then you lead it."

"Or perhaps we can get to know one another. Is that not how this sort of thing works?"

"Courting, you mean?"

"Is that—"

"Yes."

"Oh."

Bard raised his eyebrows, staring at Thranduil as shock swept through him, but pleased shock. He was going to need more wine if they were going to do this. So he took his glass, and gulped down a fair amount.

"But why?" Bard asked. "I am but a man, surely just a fraction of my life belongs to yours. I had not a title till a month past."

"I did ban my son from being with an elf lower than his status, but are we not both lords of our people, allianced together against whatever evils may come?"

"That still does not answer my question. Why me?"

"Perhaps I am sick of being alone."

"But you will be alone. Not today, perhaps, but tomorrow, or ten years from now, twenty, thirty."

"Then they will have been years worth knowing you. Now, what is your favorite food?"

"Pardon?"

"Food. What is your favorite? I prefer a platter of fresh strawberries with a bit of honey glaze. It tastes ever so sweetly of spring morning, though elves are in the autumn of our time."

Bard frowned. He had not had time to have a favorite food. It had been hard in Lake Town, for years and years. He did his best to cook with lots of herbs and spices, but never had he thought of a favorite.

"Halibut with a bit of dill weed," he eventually answered. It was something his children loved.

"Ah, yes, you are of the lake."

It went on like that, and the answers from Thranduil were increasingly strange, as were the questions. Bard was simply a man with gray in his hair and lines upon his aging face, youth fleeing from him, and here an elf sat before him, talking of ancient times, and things he could only dream of. Eventually he spoke of times before, of kinslayings that Bard could not truly know the hurts of or understand, of evils greater than that of dragons and dwarves sick in the mind, of his father, of a time when Mirkwood was the Greenwood and his realm was larger than it was today.

Bard knew not what to say to any of it, and somehow, amongst all the talking, Thranduil had drawn him away from the hall, away from Dale, up into the reaches of the mountain, towards the starlight, where they sat, arms about each other.

"We are truly not alike," Bard told him.

Thranduil brushed some hair from his face, and caressed his ear, paying great attention to it.

"Is each season not alike, but still as beautiful as the last? The white snowfall as pure and perfect as the blooming of new life, or the crisp scent of the autumn leaf and red berry? This Middle-Earth is filled with wonders that are different."

Bard pulled away. "Thranduil, you are six thousand years old. I am but in my forties."

"No matter."

"Yes, it is a matter, and a problem, and-and… We do not even speak the same language. You are speaking my language, but I cannot speak yours. I cannot think of numbers at the moment, but your son is surely older than my family's history, and you dress in robes of flowing silver, and yet you look at _me_, this man who slayed a dragon because it was all he could do to save his family. I am not a hero, or a king, or a lord of old. I am not of the Valar, or whatever else it is you spoke of in your many stories. I am but a father with three _young_ children in your eyes, children who you do not understand the aging of, and I am on this mountain with you tonight because of decorum."

"No."

"You are my ally. I do as you wish for fear of breaking that alliance."

Bard was lying now. This was not what he wanted, but he knew not what to do. This could not be what he wanted in his life, what Thranduil wanted, what they needed. It was too soon after the battle, after the losses. And they had both had wives they had lost. This could not be right. The time did not compare.

"My life is the blink of an eye compared to yours," Bard went on.

Thranduil's face flushed and he grabbed him. "Then I promise to never blink."

"How ridiculous you sound."

"And yet I am being honest."

"And I am not?"

"I think not. Do not be afraid of pain, Bard the Dragonslayer. Pain will imprison us within ourselves."

"I am not afraid. I do not fear matters of the heart."

"Then do not fear this."

Bard turned away from him, looked up towards the moon, and paced about the rocks. Thranduil tried to come near, but he put out his hand, a warning to stay back. The elf king respected his wish.

Bard closed his eyes, taking in deep breaths.

His town, his children, what would they think? Or perhaps it mattered not. Bard had been alone for quite a long time. And he had been stunned by Thranduil when first he had laid eyes upon him. And now they knew each other, and still Thranduil wished for this. Bard, he did wish for this. But all he saw in his life were ruins. The ruins of Erebor, of Lake Town, of Dale, of his family, his children without their mother.

Surely this could only end in that.

The lake glimmered in the night down below them, so cold, so beautiful. And in it depths upon depths of history and ages lay. His gaze fixed on what had once been his home.

"Homes can be rebuilt," Thranduil told him, now at his side, but not touching, respecting him. "Hearts can mend. Time is not still. And the sun wheels above us, warming, nurturing. Evil is not forever. I have lived long enough to know this."

"And what of my life?" Bard asked. "It has been only ruin and death."

"You look to the shadows, not the light that brings them. Gaze upon the stars with me. See what I see."

Thranduil put a hand under his chin, touch gentle, and tilted his head up, and Bard felt tears sting in his eyes. And there he saw the light, out there amongst the darkness. The stars existed amongst it, pushing it back.

"We walk up there amongst it, but we are also down here, dwelling where the sun will shine anew each day. Your heart is hardened, bowman. But warmth tempers the hardest of metals."

Bard looked to Thranduil now, a tear trailing down his cheek.

"I do not wish for this darkness, only the best for my children, my people. I want no glory or honor for myself."

"Glory and honor is upon you, whether you would have it or not. You are a marvel, a humble man before the feet of powers greater than yourself. You humble me. And I wish to have you. Do you not want me?"

Words could not suffice anymore, so Bard cupped Thranduil's face in his hands, drew him down, and kissed him. The elven king was smiling against his lips for a fraction of a second, before he pulled him tight against him. After long seconds, Bard pulled away, breathless, and he was ever so reverently caressing the points of his ears. Thranduil tilted his head into his touch.

"So how will you tell your rebellious son about us?" Bard asked, now laughing.

Thranduil laughed with him. "Not to worry. I sent him on a quest to find the king of a broken realm."

"Oh?"

"The man does not talk to very many people and is hunting a strange creature that likes to bite. I think my son will be quite busy at the moment. Your children?"

"Tilda thinks that you trap pretty men in your dungeons."

"Oh, but I do."

The two of them laughed together, wrapped up in each other, and Bard forgot his troubles.


End file.
